Title: If I Profane
Rating/Length: PG / ~1480
Kurt really sort of loves Dalton. He loves the rich wood and the smooth marble, the expensive upholstery and the just-shy-of-gaudy chandeliers. He loves how the classrooms are neat and tidy and the bathroom are always clean. He loves how none of the windows are ever broken and the walls never stained with graffiti. But it’s not just the building that’s captured him – it’s the things that lie in between.
Kurt loves the way he can walk down the hallway to his next class without fear or shame or worry. It took a few weeks, to settle into the security of it all, to not flinch when a door slammed or shy away when someone larger than him appeared suddenly at his side. And longer still to be able to use the communal showers without his heart pounding heavy in his throat and his palms sweating. He’s even come to sort of love the uniform, how it challenges his ability to infuse a little bit of fashion into even the drabbest of outfits.
But most of all, he loves that Blaine is there. Blaine is everywhere. Blaine is in his classes and his lunch hour. He’s in Warbler practice and his study period. And he’s in Kurt’s dorm room.
It’s a Wednesday evening, just after dinner, and Blaine is dancing around Kurt’s little room. He’s got his laptop set up on the desk and they’re listening to one of Blaine’s more esoteric playlists. Kurt’s sure they’ve jumped from the 90s to the 50s and back to Top 40 before returning to the 70s a dozen times already. (Blaine’s got a playlist with Kurt’s initials as the title and the mere thought of it makes Kurt’s belly squirm happily and his cheeks pink up.) Blaine’s been singing along to every song, and if Kurt chimes in with harmonies now again, well, that’s just what they’re good at.
Weep for yourself, my man
You’ll never be what is in your heart
“Ugh I love this song,” Blaine says over the music when a new song starts up.
Blaine’s down to his slacks and his shirtsleeves and Kurt can’t keep his eyes off of him. Not that he ever can. Blaine had thrown his blazer over Kurt’s desk chair as soon as they’d walked into the room and lined his shoes up next to Kurt’s by the door. Half an hour after that, Kurt had watched as Blaine’s long fingers loosened his tie and that too was draped over his blazer. Kurt had flushed, remembering the night before, when those fingers had been clumsily attacking the knot of his tie and warm lips had been ghosting across his neck. Kurt shifts a bit on the bed where he’s sitting and is glad he’s got a book in his lap.
Take all the courage you have left
They’re supposed to be studying – they have a history test next week – but Blaine’s been distracted by Kurt’s sketchbooks the entire time he’s been in Kurt’s room. He’d snatched one off Kurt’s desk and started flipping through the pages enthusiastically. He’s the only person in the world Kurt lets look at design sketches. Kurt tries not to think about the kilt he’d be playing with the other week (he doesn’t even think Daltonhas a prom, unless they get to invite the girls from Crawford, but that doesn’t stop him from dreaming). And he really doesn’t think about the tuxes he’s drawn out before that, the ones that look like they could possibly be for a wedding.
“You should do this for a living,” Blaine says inside of singing the next lines.
Kurt glances up from where he resolutely wasn’t reading about the French Revolution. “What?”
Blaine holds Kurt’s sketchbook up. “This. Fashion. You should do this. You’re so talented, Kurt.”
Kurt cheeks pink a little. He’s still unused to Blaine’s compliments, even though he gets them all the time.
I love the color of your eyes.
Your brooch looks perfect today.
I could die just to hear you sing again.
“Thank you,” Kurt says, pressing his hands flat to the pages of his history textbook. “I think I want to. I think I’d be good at it.” It’s something he normally keeps close to his heart. He used to think dreams weren’t for people like him, but lately, with Blaine, he thinks they just might be.
Blaine wiggles his way across the room to the bed where Kurt still is. He leans down, cupping the back of Kurt’s head in one big, gentle hand, and pulls him up in a quick, smacking kiss. Kurt gasps into it.
“You’ll be the best at it,” Blaine whispers, so close to Kurt’s lips that Kurt can taste his breath. “Vogue won’t know what hit them.” And then he’s gone, back to swaying with the rhythm of the music, bouncing a little on his toes and leaving Kurt’s lips tingling from his kiss and his blood singing with the want of needing him closer.
Kurt tries to watch discreetly between paragraphs of his reading. But Blaine’s ass is, well, well it’s nothing less than glorious, even in those unforgiving Dalton-issue slacks and Kurt can’t help but watch as Blaine dancing and sways just a few feet away from him. Napoleon can’t possibly hold his interest when Blaine Anderson is barefoot and half-dressed, and Kurt still considers no shoes, no blazer, and no tie to be undressed.
But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
Kurt loves the ease of this, of having Blaine in his room. It means Blaine’s clothes on his chair and his books on his desk and the scent of Blaine’s skin in his sheets when they’ve spent the time they should have been studying on far more enjoyable pursuits. Blaine in his room also means keeping an eye on the clock for curfew. It’s Blaine having to leave hours and hours before Kurt is ready for him to go, having to drag his hands from the solid curve of Blaine’s waist and his lips from the heat of Blaine’s throat. Blaine comes back though, every night he can (and Kurt finds himself in Blaine’s room too). Kurt smiles softly down at this book, biting at his lip.
“I really fucked it up this time,” Blaine sings, suddenly louder than any line before.
Kurt sucks in a soft breath. He’s heard Blaine swear before, heard him say things like “damn” and “shit,” and it’s never affected him in the slightest. They’re just words. But there’s something about way fuck falls from Blaine’s lips that makes heat pool in Kurt’s belly and his fingers tingle. The hard k comes from the back of his throat and seems to linger longer in his mouth than it should. Kurt shifts again and bites down harder on his lip.
Blaine seems to notice something’s off because he pauses and cocks his head at Kurt. “What?”
“Nothing,” Kurt protests, swallowing and trying to will the heat from his cheeks. It doesn’t work.
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck
“Seriously. Tell me. Is it-” Blaine pauses, considering something, and then understanding washes bright across his face. “Is it because I said fuck?”
His voice is light and teasing and Kurt shivers. Blaine’s eyes widen in delight.
“It is!” He exclaims.
“Blaine…” Kurt watches as Blaine wriggles his way back to bed, crawling up onto the mattress and settling so close their knees bump together. His eyes are more gold than green and he’s grinning broadly, cheekily, as he sings right at Kurt, leaning in ever closer.
“But it was not your fault but mine. And it was your heart on the line. I really fuckedit up this time. Didn’t I, my dear?”
Kurt shudders again. He can’t help it. The word does something to him, or rather, Blaine saying it does something. It brings to the front of his mind, thoughts and images, sights and sounds that he normally tries so hard to push away. It makes him think of Blaine panting and sweating under him, or over him. It makes him think of heat and pressure and sweat that isn’t his dripping on skin that is. He thinks of heaving breath and shaking limbs and pleasure unfurling in his belly until he can’t contain it a moment longer.
“Didn’t I my dear?” Blaine sings again, softer, and his breath warm and delicate on Kurt’s lips.
Kurt reaches out, grabbing Blaine’s face in both of his hands, and tugs his mouth to his, stopping the words. His book falls from his lap as he pulls Blaine closer. Kurt feels the sweet curve of Blaine’s smile against his lips and he wonders how often he can get Blaine to swear for him.